


When Helen Met Dorian

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: The Great God Pan - Arthur Machen, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Classical References, Crossover, Gen, Pastiche, Period Typical Attitudes, The real Gothic monster is the friends we made along the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 22:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19365334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: Consider this a teaser for a much longer work, in the same universe as my previous story Art and Alchemy.





	When Helen Met Dorian

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this a teaser for a much longer work, in the same universe as my previous story Art and Alchemy.

Helen Vaughan sat with the grace of a panther surveying its territory from a branch. Her gaze seemed to go right through Dorian, which was unexpected. He didn’t mind. He could appreciate any novelty, however short-lived. He did not remember what had sparked her little tirade, but he didn’t mind that, either. This was the most colourful supper he’d attended in ages.

“They tell such charming stories of the past—of honour, restraint, philosophy,” said Helen, scornfully. “The Greeks and Romans were very much like us, shining empires bringing reason to the barbarians. Don’t read the seedy bits; all societies have their vices, and—” A mocking laugh bubbled up from her throat. “You’re smiling.”

“You’re an amusing woman,” Dorian said. “And a worldly one; I like that.”

“Oh, I’m even more, I promise.”

He shrugged, good-naturedly. Yet a sudden restlessness was brewing in him. What wouldn’t he give for a companion worth talking to, who knew something of the monstrous turns life could take, and who wasn’t a hypocrite about them? He did not know if Helen could be anything of the kind. He’d known and discarded so many people, over the years.

“Well, whatever you are, there don’t seem to be enough of you in society.”

“Don’t I know it. But—” her nose crinkled—“To finish my thought. I’m sure you were told just that as a boy, about the seedy bits. Public schoolboys always are. You probably dreamed of satisfying all your curiosity, gorging yourself, unlike most people.” She sounded as bored as he felt. Hope surged in him like a caged thing.

“Go on.”

“Well, as I said, vice has been known in all times and lands, and after all, they were pagans then.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. Dorian laughed and sipped his wine. Helens’s glass clinked as she raised and sniffed it, pouting. Her contempt was clear, though the wine was exquisite, a Chambertin 1870.

“Not to your liking?” Dorian said. He recalled something Lord Henry had told him when he first introduced Helen. “I suppose it’s less than a thousand years old?”

Her mouth curved.

“You joke, but you must come to one of my parties. I promise you’ll see things even you never experienced before.” She shifted in her seat. Her smile had twisted into a leer, and a gemlike hardness had come into her lovely face. His expectations of her were rising, despite her sex.

“I doubt that. I fear I’ve seen everything—after a lifetime of careful study. But I do want to hear this theory you were getting at, about the ancients.”

The bracelets at her wrists glittered beneath the electric lights. She set down her glass.

“We’ve invented the most delightful myths and fables. Pretty nymphs and warring gods made in the image of men. We forget that all those stories are symbols whose meanings we butcher. Those gods—” She laughed again, harsher, this time. “At least, the things the symbols referred to were never human. We cheapened them, gave them petty concerns like strategy, cities, medicine. We made them lawgivers and swore they were endowed with reason. Civilization is _so_ optimistic. But it’s like your friend Harry says. The basis of optimism is always terror. What really moves this world is quite different.” Her tongue darted snakelike from her red mouth to lick at her lips. An image flashed into his brain. He imagined overgrown ivy and lonely olive groves, with something delightful and sinister lurking just out of scene. A smile tugged at his mouth.

“We forget the mysteries in dark caves below the earth. The sudden, choking terror that assaults men in silent woods and leaves them blubbering about what they saw when they should have been alone.” Helen’s face shone. Dorian had the impression that she was recalling some old game with affection. Perhaps there was something to her after all. Weaker men would have shuddered, but Dorian beamed, and leaned in closer. A thrill ran down his spine and he begged her, for the third time, to continue.

She inclined her dark head.

“It’s just that people can’t bear losing their illusions. Can you rip through the veil, or have it torn from you, and remain sane? Remain human?” For a moment her laughter drained from her. “That was my mother’s fate, you see—madness. And even my father, or my _human_ father—” What a strange choice of words. She could be delusional, or divine. He noted with interest the way her jaw twitched. She raised her glass again and drank deeply. “Never mind; I won’t bore you with family history. You know how tedious relations are. I understand your grandfather was a brute, too.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“How did you—” But of course, she must have looked him up. “Debrett’s _Peerage_ , I suppose. Lord Kelso had that reputation.”

He winced as he spoke his grandfather’s name. Damn it: he hoped she had not noticed. He was far beyond silly concerns like the tyrant of his boyhood. What were childhood memories now, when he half-expected to mount the stairs to his attic and shake hands with the devil himself one of these days? Dorian didn’t know if the idea terrified or delighted him.

“I sympathize,” Helen said. “Really. My father is also a mean lout. But he’ll get what he deserves.” A brightness came into her eyes. He wished he knew where she was going with her strange speech, and wished even more that he could believe it all. Perhaps he would, before the night was out.

“Anyway, once you’ve seen beyond ordinary human pettiness, once you’ve looked past that veil, so much becomes meaningless. What is property, perjury, chastity—” she spat the word—“really a synonym for property, when you have a sense of what truly moves this world? I won’t play by those false rules.” She relaxed again, even leaned her elbows rebelliously on the table, like a schoolgirl. He could not help liking her frankness and her weird, mystic talk. No wonder Harry had found her intriguing. She had won him over in Italy, as she was winning Dorian now.

“You speak as if you were something other than human,” Dorian remarked, keeping his voice light and teasing. But his heart had quickened. If she were as queer as people said—if she had dealings with devils or anything of the sort—then she was a magnificent find.

“Perhaps I am,” Helen said, arching one eyebrow. “Or perhaps I’m something less. It’s all the same; the hierarchies are another comforting lie—at least, in my opinion. And what about you, Mr. Gray? Are you really so different?”


End file.
